Black and White

Around the edges, the Sacre-Cœur is black like coal. At a distance, all you can see is its white splendor piled atop Montmartre like freshly whipped cream; you have to take the time to actually walk around to see the burn marks. Isn’t it the same with people?, she thinks. She swallows, tasting disappointment and hunger and relief — and continues walking.
Boots in the snow. Grating. A mother screeching, suitcases’ open jaws. Men’s voices tearing apart the unstained wintry air, bursting windows. Cries. A last kiss, never to be redeemed. Boots in the snow. If only one could forget.
“You have Alzheimer’s, Mrs. Goldmann.” It’s not always easy when wishes are granted; sometimes it can even be quite lousy. The man in the white coat in front of her sports the typical face of a doctor, with sharp cheekbones and wrinkles testifying a laboriously acquired wisdom. He twirls a ballpoint pen through his clinical fingers and looks at her sharply, as if still considering whether to deliver the ensuing monologue as one would to a child or to an adult. His office is ordinary and insignificant like a polished rock; it doesn’t offer any surface to attack.
On the walls there are diagrams of cross sections of the human body and photographs of the doctor’s children — at least they’re still uncut. Where is your wife?, she wants to ask him. Are you afraid of hanging a photo of her because sometimes you fantasize about actually hanging her?
She wants to hold onto something, somewhere, but her impatient and nervous looks slip off of the sterile surfaces surrounding her. “Mrs. Goldmann,” the doctor insists dryly, appearing both dull and clear at the same time. “Do you know what that means, Mrs. Goldmann?” Apparently the doctor decided to treat her like an incompetent patient who has no idea that she’s going to have her ass wiped by an underpaid Polish woman; as if she didn’t know that she’ll soon be witnessing her own demise.
“Of course I know that,” she says, holding onto the smooth edges of the chair with only her fingertips, trying to remember what it was that she spread on her bread this morning. Did she even have bread?
Rugged hands. Dirty fingernails cutting into fearful trembling flesh. Cries. The reek of alcohol from putrid canyons, rotten and sharp. Blood on the sheets, like dried paint. Boots in the snow.
The doctor talks to her for a few more minutes, but she doesn’t listen, why should she, she’s going to forget it all anyway; he said so himself. He thrusts a paper into her trembling hand, “Diagnosis: Alzheimer’s Disease” is written on it, two laughing seniors throwing a maliciously moronic and vital laugh into her and the diagnosis’ faces. She feels the urgent need to hit them, but then she would be considered mentally unstable and be locked up. Society doesn’t like old grannies that wear bitten pearls and batter paper brochures. Society likes the seniors who wet their diapers and still plaster their joyful smile on medical pamphlets.
“See you soon, Mrs. Goldmann. And good luck.” The doctor stands up and exerts a firm handshake on her, that kind of clasped handshake that’s supposed to suggest empathy and self-confidence at the same time. The kind that says, it’s going to be alright, but here on out you’ll be coping with this alone. I’m just here to diagnose. “Thank you, doctor,” she says, surprised at how stable her own voice sounds. “And please stop repeating my name all the time. Everyone knows that trick is taught the second year of medical school. Good day.”
Outside, Paris is buzzing under the heavy July sun, and in spite of everything she feels a certain calmness washing over her, that sort of state with complete mental clarity. She can still defend herself. The disease will gradually take everything: her memory and her courage. Her dignity. I don’t want to forget, she thinks. Better nothing than everything. Alzheimer’s is a thief who puts everything in big plastic trash bags, the plasma TV and the family jewelry, household appliances and all the cash. It’s a thief who only steals what’s worth the most, and leaves behind a mess to be cleaned up.
For now, she still knows that she forgets and will continue to. But soon she’ll no longer notice how she keeps asking the same questions. She’ll become angry and stubborn when treated like a child and she’ll wonder why the strange young woman with hair like her own is calling her Mum. She’ll become apathetic and will no longer question the blank look behind her face in the mirror.
“Excuse me, young man. Where might I find the peaches?” Monoprix had rearranged the store again. The employee points to his right, only a few steps next to her the display is waiting, the fruit looking at her almost with reproach, an apple mockingly grins back at her. “But you already have some peaches in your basket,” the clerk mutters cautiously. The wave comes violently and quickly, a hot ray of embarrassment, but she is able to react to something like that now without hesitating for long: “You know, all my grandchildren are coming to visit this weekend. They’re crazy about sweet peaches, especially the youngest. Sometimes she eats all of them without even letting her siblings steal a bite!”
A hysterical giggle stumbles out of her mouth. Okay, that’s enough, she urges herself. You’re exaggerating, and besides, the employee doesn’t look particularly interested in fictional family problems. Ashamed, she gets in line and buys a dozen plump peaches, ten of which she will throw into the garbage can at home. Just like last week.
A dark beard scratching her cheek. Everything about the movement is crude, jolted. Scarcely suppressed moaning. Cries. Eyes open and rigid like deserted caves, the bare chestnut in front of the window trembling in the wind. Boots in the snow.
Her whole life she’d wanted nothing more than the ability to forget. But, as always, knowledge comes after a fall, and freedom always supposes control. She’s lurching under the firm hand of the disease and cannot choose what she remembers and what she forgets, what’s eaten its way into her brain cortex like asbestos and what falls right through the cracks. Childhood memories and traumatic experiences are often preserved in Alzheimer’s patients — that’s what the doctor said at their fourth meeting, and so it was written in the flyer with the hypocritical seniors. Now she makes notes in a small spiral notebook in the kitchen. And every week she does the crossword puzzle.
Fighting the deep waters of forgetfulness even if one would rather give in to them — to fall into a vacuum of total numbness. Peaches are being forgotten, telephone numbers, names, almost everything that constructs an identity for others. What remains are the cries. The men. The fear, like concrete on a swimmer.
Laughter, guttural and mocking. Something is pulling at her hair and she lets the tears run, but on the inside, all of her organs seem to tremble. From far away the voice of the mother. Approaching footsteps coming up the stairs, one comes to know every step, every sound after years. Cries. Wrinkles in the nightgown. Boots in the snow. Boots in the snow. Boots in the snow. Boots in the snow.
Sweat washes over her like a wave, no — a tsunami; she’s panting, but it doesn’t drown out the screaming in her head. The periods between the images are becoming shorter and shorter by the day. Usually in an ambush, it’s enough to walk into a pair of black shoes on the street or to crash into the smell of clear liquor. Just a few more steps. Her breath is coming in intermittent gasps, but she’s trying to stretch the gaps. If I fall now, I’m all alone. She pushes the thought away, just like the fact that she got lost on the way here, twice, and concentrates on her steps. Lift leg, step forward. Lift leg, step forward.
She doesn’t get any help from Eastern Europe yet, she’s not ready to lose her face, her pension is enough for ten additional untouched peaches and other fruit wrapped in a skin of shame. Breathe in. Exhale. Contradictions will not dissolve, but perhaps they don’t ever have to dissolve. Her breath is steadying now, and for the first time in months she feels a hint of control. To hold onto everything that’s remaining of me, she thinks and feels strangely at ease.
Then the basilica, with all its byzantine elegance, moves into her sight: Le Sacré-Cœur, exile of her fears. She stretches her hand out toward the cool wall, looking at its wrinkles and the burn marks on the chalky white surface, and slowly, lets herself remember: A burning cold day in January 1945. Against the bare, hard earth stand out, very sharply, a pair of black toecaps. Boots in the snow.
story first published in German in the anthology of the Superpreis für Literatur (Verbrecher Verlag, Berlin)
Photo credits: Justin Schier (flickr) with cc by 2.0 licence
